


Running On Empty

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff doesn't take the fact there are werewolves particularly well. And Chris Argent showing up doesn't help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running On Empty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



> This is for morganoconner's birthday and I'm really really sorry because it should have been a much less bucket of angst fic. Maybe the sequel will be. Or the next fluffy Sterek story I write. You can have it too. This one is a little dark and bitter.

He’s six towns over and nearly to the county line before he pulls over. He hadn’t intended to do this – he’d just got into the car and driven – but it makes a kind of sense to be here. He rests his hands on the steering wheel. There’s a motel next to the bar, the sort of place he usually ends up busting for noise complaints and shady drug deals. His brain is already offering it as a better solution than the back seat of his car though.

It’s not late, only mid-afternoon, and the place is nearly empty as he walks in. It’s neither nice nor nasty, just the sort of place he used to frequent before… Before his marriage, his job, his son, his real life. It seems fitting that this is where he’d end up.

“Whiskey.” The bartender slides a napkin in front of him before placing the glass on it. There’s only a finger or two of liquid in the glass and it vanishes all too quickly. He takes out his credit card and holds it out. “Can I start a tab?”

The bartender leaves the bottle.

The TV above the bar is tuned to ESPN Classic and it’s showing an old baseball game, its familiarity enough to soothe him but not enough to distract him. The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s not enough to wipe his memory. One part of his brain wants to start digging out old case files, start making notes, demanding answers. The larger part of him wants to shut down in something he’s uncomfortable calling fear. White blind panic would be a more accurate description anyway.

Stiles, his idiot of a son, has been running around with not-so-mythical creatures for years and been close to death and lied to him about it. Has felt that he can’t tell his old dad about the whole werewolf and bites and magic thing. So he drinks and drinks, tries to get the whirl of his thoughts to settle, to dull into some kind of order.

Someone takes the stool next to him and it’s only when they don’t order that he turns around. Chris Argent. All this trouble started when his family, Allison, moved to town. Although that’s not quite right. More of the trouble started with the return of Derek Hale. All the bloodletting that followed. He allows himself to realize how close Stiles probably came to being ripped apart. He was so fragile, just like his mom, even though he pretended not to be.

Chris nods at him. “Sheriff.”

“I’m off duty.” He takes another drink, a unsubtle hint for Chris to go the fuck away. But he doesn’t. The bartender places a beer in front of Chris and slides a bowl of chips between them before heading back down to the far end of the bar. He’s got a book on the counter and it’s not like the place is busy.

“People like us are never off duty.” Chris’ voice is quiet but perfectly audible and he has to look over and acknowledge him.

“Stiles said you were involved. He said you’d hunted Scott.” In his mind, the image of Scott changing from the boy he knew into a creature of the night coalesces again. He’s almost tempted to pinch himself, check he’s not dreaming. Or in the throes of nightmare.

“There’s a code. We only hunt those who hunt.” Chris takes a long drink of the beer, nearly finishing it. “Or there’s supposed to be.”

It’s that soft admission that he blames for the fact he waves at the bartender and asks for another glass, slopping whiskey in and sliding it towards the other man. Chris finishes his beer then takes the glass. He’s still wearing his wedding ring too. The idea that they’re in this strange kind of club: single fathers whose children are involved with life-threatening things they shouldn’t be. He didn’t get the whole story from Stiles, although there were hints that Allison was more than a little involved in the family business. That rankles. How can any father put their child in such danger deliberately?

“Part of me hoped you’d never find out.” Chris is staring at the whiskey, not drinking it. “Law enforcement and what we do don’t tend to mix. Too much paperwork.” 

He softly sneers at that. Paperwork is the bane of his existence but it’s necessary. Record everything, find links years later. Links that suggest Chris and his family burned Derek’s entire life down. “The Hale house fire. Because they were werewolves?”

“Because my sister wasn’t following the code.” Chris drinks at that, finally. “I don’t… We shouldn’t talk about this in public.” The bartender isn’t paying them that much attention and the other afternoon inhabitants are lost in their own worlds but he thinks Chris is probably right. He takes another drink, lets the uncomfortable silence build between them, watches the game spin out to its already destined end.

 

Chris is still with him when he finishes the bottle and waves at the bartender for another. But instead of staying at the bar, he takes it, flashes his badge and walks out. Chris follows him after a moment. “You’re not driving?”

“Motel room.” The world is definitely blurred around the edges and he can feel his pulse hammer in his throat. “We can talk there.”

 

It must be the fact that he’d drank the rest of the whiskey that led him to believe punching Chris would be a good idea. The room is predominantly beige, grubby in the way that’s tipping towards dirty. He’s given up caring about a lot of things and cleanliness right here and now is one of them. He’s also possibly given up caring about himself as he wraps his fist in Chris’ shirt and pulls him close.

There’s a red mark blooming on Chris’ cheekbone as he hauls him closer and kisses him.

Red mist. That’s what they call it, right? When anger wipes out everything? Wipes out werewolves and hunters and lies. It’s better than the whiskey which just traps the thoughts in his head, makes them swirl nauseatingly. The feel of Chris’ mouth on him, rough, heavy with whiskey, makes him see red.

Chris pushes him away – no, that’s not it. Chris pushes him down, flat on the bed. And Chris comes with him when he tugs at Chris’ shirt. There’s a hard thigh forced in between his legs and a mouth, stubble burning, panting at his neck. The whiskey or the lust makes the room spin around him and he finds grounding in the touch of bare skin, his hands working their way on their own under layers of cloth, grabbing at jeans to make hips move in the best kind of rhythm.

It’s rough, quick. It’s dirty. They’re wearing too many clothes and it’s hot and he is aching for more. Chris kisses him again, mouth wide, tongue forceful, before he works a hand between them and grabs his cock tight. He’s not sure how they end up with their pants open, shirts rucked up and cocks wrapped in each other’s hands. He can’t remember the reasons why he thought this was bad as it starts to feel more than good as he thrusts up into the slick tunnel of Chris’ hand. It would be good to have Chris’ mouth around it too, his ass. Mixed up with how good it feels is the usual sickening guilt that he gets to feel like this again. It makes the orgasm that he doesn’t hold back contain a slender edge of self-loathing, a sour spice to the fact he can’t hold back.

He watches Chris as he kneels up, straddling his thighs and works his own cock until he spills over his hand. Chris’ mouth isn’t hanging open in pleasure, isn’t panting out his name. Instead it’s a tight line and he seems equally as reluctant to come. There’s no tenderness in the kiss he draws Chris into after they collapse to the musty sheets. They bite at each other’s mouth, punishment for pleasure.

 

“Drink some water,” Chris advises, after he washes his hands and zips himself up. His reddened mouth is the only sign that he’d given in to temptation. “Get some sleep.”

“Take two painkillers in the morning?” The room is pulsing slightly at the edges and he can feel the heaviness of sleep. “And if I have more questions?”

“Ask Derek Hale.” Chris pauses at the door, his hand flat next to the peephole. He sighs. “You can ask me. You might not like my answers.”

There is air in the room again after Chris left. He peels off his clothes and flicks on the TV and grabs the mostly full bottle.

Answers. He has answers. He wishes he knew what the questions were.


End file.
